I did a dance class in a park this morning. Something about doing a group exercise class outside, especially in New York City, conjures up major rom com vibes for me. Add in me and my friends flailing about (*interpretatively*), and the whole scene should’ve starred — depending on era — either Meg Ryan, Kate Hudson, or Kristen Wiig.
Post-interpretative dance, we lay on the grass, staring up at the sky with the fluffy fall clouds floating on by and I was caught off guard by how… spiritual I felt? It could’ve been the positive ions that had been released due to aforementioned flailing and dancing like no one was watching. Emphasis on flailing.
Have you ever noticed how the temperature drops a few degrees the second you walk into a park? Even walking next to one provides little gusts of fresh, cool air — an especially welcome reprieve in a place as nature-less as New York City. Something just changes when you’re in nature.
One of my favorite feelings is day two or three of a camping trip. That seems to be the time when you lose interest in all the trappings of your non-camping, non-wild life. When all of a sudden, an ant carrying a crumb of food down to its colony is more interesting than your newsfeed; when you care more about who can find the most interesting rock instead of… uhhh who can get the most likes on Instagram. Living in a city, park hangs feel like micro versions of this shift. Take away the four walls and a roof, and checking your phone repeatedly feels dumb, that’s something you do when you’re inside. You’re outside right now and you better take a look around.
I went back to the park this afternoon, a place that I’ve always loved but have grown to appreciate even more since Covid. Now, it’s more than a park — now it acts as an extension of our living rooms; a place we can be safe but still feel like we’re gathering… but gathering without agenda other than hanging out, much like you would at home. And hanging out in the grass and on the dirt just feels better. I can’t explain it, but I do know there are actual scientists who can.
In my ideal world, outside and inside don’t feel all that different. I think about this a lot — and in doing so, my thoughts often go towards the Huntington Beach Library, where a giant fiddle leaf fig grows from the ground floor, through to the third floor. Its giant leaves reaching out, delighting book browsers mingling in the suspended floors. As an English major, I spent a lot of time in the library, but would often find reasons to go back there long after college because it was, for lack of a better expression, fuckin’ cool — not unlike a house a 70s movie star would have. See below.
On the way to the park this morning, I saw a hawk. I saw the same (?) bird again this evening. It makes me feel better knowing that something as wild as a hawk, something so beautiful and free, would choose to live here, too.